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I’m a voice actor, and was hired to read several Emergency Broadcasts. I don’t think they were fake.
I first knew I wanted to be an actress the first time I stepped on stage - when I was three; a gold-foil crown resting on my head crafted from yoghurt lids and wrapping paper, a jar of what was supposed to be Myrrh in my right hand, and an oversized cane in my right. I don’t think I actually had any lines – but I can remember my parents beaming. My parents, and everyone else, beaming. I knew I had to be an actress when Ewan Palmer said that I was the prettiest girl in school after I played Beatrice in our schools production of A Midsummer Nights Dream. The nerves had made me throw up the night before, and I’d been tempted to call in and tell the school I was sick, and that they’d have to get one of the other girls to do it, maybe Mary Percival who knew all my lines anyway because she’d spent every night the past week rehearsing it with me, and then I started thinking that actually Mary Percival might be very good¸ and that maybe for the interests of not only myself but everyone else in the play I should actually, genuinely, call in sick. But I didn’t call. I didn’t call in sick, and I remembered every line. When Ewan Palmer told me, I thought I was going to be sick all over again. But I wasn’t. I knew what I’d done on stage had made him say this, and I was suddenly aware of the power I’d had that night, and for a while I sat smiling and thinking about every little detail I’d put in my performance, and whether or not the crowd had picked up on it. Of course, my accident changed all that (I’ve been told to call it my accident to ‘take ownership’ of the event, and to stop it from feeling as though it is something that I can’t control now). My parents and friends tried their hardest to convince me that I could still act, and that I was still beautiful, but I could see in their eyes that (bless them) they didn’t really believe it, and so I made excuses about becoming more interesting in the writing side of it all, to spare them the second-hand embarrassment of watching me, post-accident, walk onto stage and watch as every member of the crowd winced in unison. And so, I stopped acting for a long time. I didn’t go outside much. I must have read hundreds of books, but all of the girls in them were beautiful, even when they weren’t supposed to know that they were. I watched a lot of tv, and preferred animated shows: I felt if they weren’t real, then I was less conscious of the difference between us, and I wasn’t so conscious about what had happened to my face. It was through this that I discovered voice acting, and I felt like I’d been offered another chance. I felt back in control. I bought a £100 microphone and home recording set-up, recorded a few monologues from my favourite shows and plays, and posted them online. I build up a small portfolio, and every now and again would receive a job offer or request; often the requests would barely pay anything, but I received a small amount from the settlement every month, and had no real costs except for food and internet. These smaller jobs began to accumulate, and before long I had a decent portfolio and returning customers. I was in a few small web-shows, some that you might have seen. Still – these gigs don’t pay much, and I was living in a tiny apartment on the edge of town, eating instant ramen and drinking cheap beer. But, at least I had some control. I felt real again, as if what my accident had robbed from me, I had reclaimed. I had colleagues, a network of people who trusted and respected me. It was only a few days ago that I received a small notification on one of the free-lance sites I used. A standard username, and a fairly standard request, although the sum of money was way larger than I was used to. I took a screenshot and sent it to a voice actor friend of mine. It was an ad in the local section of one of these websites, that the poster had sent directly to me. The ad itself was vague, it specified that it was an hour or so drive out of the town I lived in, and that they required a woman’s voice. That was it. My friend’s response was encouraging. They said that often some of the larger studios will trawl freelance sites when asked to look for ‘new talent’ (the and introducing: credit is growing increasingly fashionable), and often those who are trawling will offer what they believe to be industry rates, not realising that their figure is actually way higher than the reality. I needed the money. Whilst the circumstances around the ad were unusual, the money promised would solve a lot of problems; even with that sum of money I could relocate to an apartment not surrounded by drunks. The message attached to the ad read: Hi name, We’re huge fans of your work, and would love for you to come in for a couple of days this week. Best, --- I replied: Hi ---, Great to know you guys are fans, thanks so much! More than happy to come in for a couple of days this week, but where exactly? Is transport paid for? Furthermore, do you have any character notes, or would you like a demo of any of type of performance you might want? Sorry for all the questions – it might be easier if we call. Thanks again, - Their response: No call. Character notes not applicable. Rate specified includes petrol. - I live in a small town, with a relatively small population – however, it’s a well known fact that in the Scottish Highlands surrounding my town there are dozens and dozens of military bases. These range from the official - where training exercises are run and truckloads of troops will stop off at the local pub for a drink, to the unofficial - plots of land that don’t appear on satellite images, and reports of strange activity that slowly filters through the gossip mill. It looked like the location was fairly close to one of these bases, down a road I’d driven a few times. The road itself was long and winding. It cut into a shallow valley, and was filled with so many twists and turns that it had earned a place for itself in local mythology. There were always accidents when there was frost, and the locals managed to conjure up all sorts of reasons for these. I thought it was fairly evident that frost, and hairpin turns don’t make for easy driving, but I’d heard everything from aliens, to ghosts trapped in the valley. And so, I agreed to the job. I spent the morning before practicing vocal warm-ups, and working out my route there. The drive there was uneventful; thankfully I’d downloaded the map and printed it off, as reception soon grew faulty. I went up a slow incline, and then down into the valley. I could just make out a white dot in the distance, and as I grew closer I realised that it was some sort of cottage. It would make sense for some indie studio to record in a cottage, although something about it was a little unsettling. The white coat of paint seemed brand-new, unchipped, and the gravel on the drive was from a stone I hadn’t seen before, a shade of brown that wasn’t present in the highlands. The man who opened the door wasn’t quite what I’d expected. Something about him seemed familiar, as if I’d met him before, and when he shook my hand I caught a twang in his voice that I half recognised. But – this was probably mistaken. He stank of expensive cologne sprayed liberally, and wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky. He told me that they were excited to have me here, that they couldn’t wait for me to sink my teeth into what they had planned; using the phrase ‘role of a lifetime’. He gave a nod to the receptionist, who was typing away at her computer, as we walked past, although she didn’t look up. He took me down into the basement, which had been kitted out with bright LED lights and grey soundproofing foam, where he handed me a set of legal documents. He mentioned something about finding a colleague and left the room. I read the first few lines, and the last, and the thickness of the set of papers I’d been handed indicated to me that even they didn’t expect me to read it all. Nothing in the document seemed out of the blue, and I signed where indicated. It took me a moment to get my bearings, and I noticed that the basement of this building seemed bigger than I’d initially thought. The small room I was in was connected to a door that seemed to be the recording booth, and three other doorways. Two were shut, and through the one that was open I could just make out a long corridor. As I stood to take a look, the man came back, and as he escorted me into the recording booth I realised that I didn’t know his name. He hadn’t asked mine when we’d met, and he’d moved straight into business talk that I’d missed my opportunity. He looked at me as he closed the door, and asked if I wanted anything, I was tempted to ask then, to apologise for forgetting earlier, but there was something in his manner that stopped me. A woman’s voice came on, over the intercom. “Thank you so much for coming. In front of you is a short script. We’ll only be reading this today.” I looked at the script in front of me, and picked it up. Judging from its weight, it was only a dozen or so pages. I squinted at the cover page, and ran a thumb over the all caps title: ALERT. That was all it said. I turned over the first page, and looked to the margins, to see which characters were speaking but – nothing. Instead, the pages were filled with paragraphs and paragraphs of double spaced type. I looked back up, confused. I could hear a faint buzzing coming from somewhere outside the room. “Is this it? Are there any character notes – any cues I should be aware of?” “We only need you to read what’s in front of you. Stay calm.” I assumed the stay calm was some sort of stage direction, but I couldn’t be sure. I did feel myself starting to panic slightly, and I thought about how little I knew about where I was. I didn’t tell anyone where I’d be, because I had no one to tell. The script I read was delirious and rambling. It made no sense, and was compiled with contradiction upon contradiction. Characters seemed to be in two places at once, and often I would have monologues that would seem to be spoken by different people at the same time; covering places local to me in vague terms, with odd biblical turns of phrase, with sections that sounded like invocations and repeated words. I didn’t know what this was for but it couldn’t be useable. It didn’t make enough sense. You never know with freelance work though, often the best paychecks come from vanity projects and so I ploughed on. The script grew increasingly esoteric and strange; quoting Freud and Crowley, De Sade and Newton and Yeats. It made me a little uncomfortable, if I’m honest. Those who’ve listened to any of Charles Manson’s ‘speeches’ after he was arrested, or read some sort of lunatics manifesto will know how unnerving genuine madness really is – and this felt something like that. It was just beginning to grow to a fever pitch, when I was cut off. “That’ll be all for today. You’ll be escorted from the premises now. Same time tomorrow.” Escorted from the premises? I frowned. That wasn’t something you’d say to an actor, and definitely not one who you’d picked up from a local ad online. I heard the sound of a door open, and the clip-clip of heels down the corridor. Realising this might be the woman, I dashed to the door and opened it. Unfortunately, she was already a long way down the corridor opposite, and moving quickly. Regardless of how weird the experience was, I didn’t want to embarrass myself by dashing down after her - and even then, what would I say? Would I tell her that the script had made me uncomfortable? That the term escorted from the premises seems too strong? It all seemed ridiculous – and instead I just watched her walk away. I was a little disappointed with her silhouette – if I’m honest. The disembodied voice had meant I’d expected her to look a whole lot wilder, and I was disappointed with the fact that from behind she seemed to look perfectly normal – she was about my height, and had dark hair. The same way that you expect celebrities to be taller, I expected her to have an impossible hourglass figure and a sheer black bob, but, no, she seemed to be just like me. When I think back over this day, I feel that maybe this was more important than I give it credit for, but I’m still not sure how, like an itch you can’t scratch. The man came back down the stairs, and noticed me watching the woman walk away. He moved to the door quicker than I’d seen him move before, quicker than relaxed persona; sunglasses and cologne, would suggest he could, and slammed it shut. “Follow me.” My mind wandered as I climbed the stairs and left the building. Something about it had put me on edge, and I was trying to place what it was. It hadn’t been entirely unpleasant, and only a little uncomfortable towards the end, and it wasn’t as if I found the woman’s voice or the man threatening. I sat in my car for a while thinking, without turning the engine on, listening to the arrhythmic sound of rain beginning to fall, the tap-tap-tap growing harder and more regular as my windshield became covered in tiny rivulets. What had made me so uncomfortable slowly dawned on me – the whole place had felt fake. Like a film set, or an empty stage: it wasn’t lived in. There was no wear and tear, and everything, from the chair I sat on to the door I had come in through, had seemed brand new and factory fresh, as if just moments before I’d arrived they’d been pulling the shrinkwrap off. As I mulled this over, I drove slowly back up towards the town. The rain was falling heavily now, and I had to put the foglights on to cut through the half-light of the evening. There was no one else for miles around, and the wild grass and shrubs of the highlands stretched on and on in every direction around me. Something, maybe thunder, boomed in the distance. I kept driving, checking my rear-view to see my own face looking back at me. My eyes, and the ugly scar that ran from my brow to my chin, dividing my face into two mismatched halves. That sound again. Except it was closer – and it sounded less like thunder. I looked in my wingmirrors - a little frightened now - and made out nothing behind me. I’d have seen it if there was – at least that was what I told myself – I didn’t want to go too much faster, and admit to myself that something was wrong, but I increased my speed slightly, and checked my wingmirrors more and more often. The sound again. I’d been wrong the first time, it wasn’t thunder at all. It was a low, rumbling sound, but it was much closer. I increased my speed a little more. I checked my rearview mirror and for a second I thought I could make out a pale flash amongst the grey shrubbery, like a body, someone, something, running across the grass and up the shallow valley, running towards me, and then it disappeared, as if it had thrown itself to the ground, and I couldn’t help but floor the pedal and drive as fast as I could away, tires shrieking in the rain, drenched in sweat and clutching the steering wheel so tight the tips of my fingers tingled. I didn’t sleep well that night. For a while I found comfort in the sounds of the drunks outside my window, shouting as they stumbled up and down the street. I could make out the voice of Pete, the way his S’s whistled due to his missing teeth, and the sound of Charlie belch, and hear Tommy shout in his thick accent as he stumbled into the bins on account of his milky eyes; ruined by age, like marbles covered in PVA glue. But, around 1 or 2 am they stopped altogether. Usually they continued until the early hours, but that night they stopped simultaneously. Instead of fading out one by one, the noise stopped at once. I heard the sound of their footsteps get fainter, and was surprised at the speed they’d all moved away at. If I didn’t know better, I’ve had thought that they were running away. I woke in the morning exhausted, and wasn’t entirely sure when I’d fallen asleep. It felt as if I’d only closed my eyes for a second, but there was daylight poking through my curtains. I checked my watch – shit. My second visit was in fifteen minutes time. Shit shit shit. I’m not sure I even had time to think about last night’s events as I rushed through my morning routine – brushing my teeth as I got dressed, blasting myself with deodorant, necking scalding coffee as I threw my phone charger in a bag. I drove as quick as I could, and in the light of a new day the landscape that had put me on edge last night seemed to have dissolved with the night. As I pulled into the cottage, I noticed a few figures in the distance. They were easy to spot as they were all wearing Hi-Vis jackets, which stood out against the muted colours of the grass and mountains. I looked closer: they were wearing Hi-Vis jackets, and carrying something big and- The man from yesterday opened the door and saw me looking at the Hi-Vis (well, I assume he did at least, but his sunglasses still covered half his face). “Hey – let’s not waste time. In.” Shit, of course. I was late. Again, there was something familiar in his voice. An accent I knew. But I had no time to puzzle it over as I was shepherded inside. I hurried in, nodded to the receptionist, and walked down the stairs towards the studio. The door was already open for me today, and a new script was on the table. The woman made me spend a while perfecting my tone of voice – apparently I sounded too stressed. Perhaps it’s because I was running late, and hadn’t had time to do any of the vocal warm-ups I usually like to do before a job. The second day’s script was stranger – they had me reading all sorts of strange alerts and broadcasts as slowly and calmly as possible. It was a jarring change from the previous days ramblings, and the two recordings seemed so at odds with each other I wasn’t sure that they could be for the same project. had no idea what this could be. I thought, perhaps, I was providing a voiceover for a viral marketing campaign, or for a top-secret portion of a popular show or movie series. But I knew in my heart that both of these options weren’t true, and there was something just too strange about the whole thing. There was much less to read today, and instead the woman was focussed on ensuring that my voice was consistently relaxed and calming. About an hour in there was a commotion outside, I heard several voices outside my door, and the sound of her heels clipping down the corridor quickly, as if she was in a rush to attend to something. I opened the door just a crack, and saw the man who’d let me in hurry down a corridor to my right, evidently following the source of the noise and commotion. Slowly, opening the door inch by inch, I moved out into the room at the bottom of the stairs. I approached the corridor the woman had marched down, and watched it for a while. I could hear the voices get fainter and fainter, echoing from far away. With my heart in my mouth, I decided to move a little further into the corridor. Although the voices were faint now, I could still hear them just, and I knew that if they were to come back this way I’d be able to hear it. So, making sure not to make any noise, I started walking. I’d thought perhaps the underground section had been a studio, but as I walked further I realised that it was far, far bigger. The map in my head had three corridors that maybe had several rooms, for equipment and editing – but this was on another scale entirely. The corridor I was walking down had dozens of corridors branching off of it, and each of these corridors seemed to stretch out for hundreds of meters; intersected by other corridors that I could only assume stretched just as far if not further, their dirty cream wallpaper blanketed in sterile white light. Whatever this was, underground, spread out like a web or a fungus in every direction. Part of me tried to rationalise this. Perhaps this was an old boarding school (although the hallways looked too clinical), or an old wing of a hospital (but why have a hospital this far out in the middle of nowhere?), or simply a large studio filled with room after room after room. I heard the voices grow louder, and stopped in my tracks. They were coming back this way – and fast. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I retraced my steps and hurried back into the recording room. The session took another hour or so to finish, take after excruciating take. It’s beyond agonizing to be told for the twelfth time that your voice isn’t quite soothing enough, and rallying yourself to keep it soothing whilst under that much stress is tough. There was one phrase in particular they had me repeat over and over again, until they must have had about one hundred takes. They buzzed me out the same as before, but this time I heard the woman’s heels ascending the stairs, and as I exited I thought I’d catch sight of her, but instead I only saw her legs and torso. She turned at the sound of the door opening, to face me, her face obscured from view by the low ceiling above me. She stood this way, facing me but not seeing me, for a while, before continuing up the stairs. I followed her. I was done with this place, with their agonizing demands and strange architecture. I tried to catch the receptionists’ eyes as I left, but she was typing away, focused on the screen in front of her. The evening was darker than yesterday’s, and I realised that I’d been below ground for far longer than I’d anticipated. Again, when I sat in the car, I took a moment to think over the previous few hours. I thought about the long, seemingly endless web of corridors underground, and what the doors that punctuated them held. I thought about how new the cottage seemed, and the Hi-Vis jackets in the distance. I thought about how the whole thing seemed like an empty stage, and the way the man who’d let me in seemed to be playing a part and how I couldn’t see his eyes, and how the receptionist was typing even though her screen was black and- Even though her screen was black. I shook the thought from my head – right now, I needed to focus on getting home. The experience of the previous day still had me shaken, and as I drove I used the breathing exercises they’d taught me in therapy. I tried to exclusively focus on driving and breathing, and counted each breath in, and each breath out. For a while, it worked. The evening grew darker. Then there was the sound again. A low boom, close. I checked the rear-view mirror, this time there weren’t many clouds in the sky at all. There was no way this could be thunder. The clouds seemed to be leaving the sky and rolling in off the lips of the valley. Like dry ice, slowly moving towards me. It was drizzling now, and my windscreen wipers started, occasionally moving back and forth with a quiet squeak. This was all I could hear for a while, watching the fog grow closer, trying to find a station on the radio but only coming across static until I heard that noise like thunder. The sound was back, louder than ever, and the car shuddered. I slammed on the brakes, and sat for a moment in the silence. I didn’t move, and all I could hear was the sound of my ragged breathing; shaken and uneven. It was like I’d hit something with my car. Maybe a rabbit, or a bird. I thought about getting out and checking, but something, some sixth sense, kept me inside the vehicle. I checked the rear-view mirror again, and, this time, I’m certain I saw something. Something pale moved at the edge of the fog. I saw it only for a second before it was covered by the mist and the dark. Then I saw it again, closer this time, moving unnaturally, taking jagged steps before throwing itself down onto the ground. I put my foot on the gas, and felt a lump form in my throat as the car stalled for a second, then started, the engine straining under my demands. The car sped up, but the road I was on seemed to go on forever, the distance obscured by fog, each turn slowing me down; so that I felt like my car was on some sort of conveyor belt. I could feel beads of sweat run down my back, and every now and again I would look in the rearview mirror, to see my eyes wide and panicked, and shapes moving in the fog. As they grew closer there was a new noise, halfway between a rasp and bark, and my hands started to shake. I prayed that the car wouldn’t stop, that I wouldn’t be stuck as the fog completely closed in and all I could do was wait for them to catch up with me, and thank god it didn’t. I know what I saw. I’ve tried to think about what they could be – tricks of the light, animals seeming closer than they really were. But I know. Those shapes could have only been one thing. They were unmistakably bodies – human bodies. Whether or not they were people, I don’t know, but the way they moved they could only have been one thing. The thought played over and over again in my head for the rest of the drive home, and every bump in the road made me freeze for a second in fear. I parked across the road from my flat, and ran to my front door, fumbling the keys in my desperation to get in. I double locked my door, and took a kitchen knife into my room, where I sat with my back pressed against the wall. I didn’t know what was going on – yet – but something was wrong. It was like a fever dream, and I felt like I only had some of the pieces of the puzzle. Try as I might to find a rational solution to all of these occurrences; the tunnels, the bodies in the fog, the strange script – I couldn’t. I didn’t sleep again that night, and instead spent the time googling facts about the local area. I tried to see if there were any boarding schools, or hospitals nearby – but any that were or had been nearby were miles and miles away from the strange cottage. There were, however, military bases nearby, some official and on the books, and some unofficial; only locatable through second-hand accounts on conspiracy forums. The drunks started yelling and making noise a little earlier tonight, as if they were trying to anesthetize something, to dull some sense of horror from yesterday. Although, perhaps I was projecting. I suppose all drunks are trying to numb something in one way or another. I found their shouts comforting, I guess, in the sense that I wasn’t completely alone on this street, and that human contact – if I wanted it – was only a stones throw away. Tommy’s voice, his thick accent – his thick accent that I realised I’d heard earlier today, that had tried to mask itself but couldn’t help giving itself away in the vowels. The accent I’d heard from the man who’d let me in to the cottage. The man wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky. The man wearing sunglasses to cover his milky eyes. It couldn’t have been Tommy. He couldn’t make his way from the street corner to the off license without stumbling over once or twice, let alone make the journey out into the highlands. Could he? Then, again, like the night before, they all stopped simultaneously. Part of me wanted to run to the window and check, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Instead, all I did was clutch my knife tighter, subconsciously angling it towards the street outside. Then there was one final shout; different to the others, louder, scared – and the street was silent. The silence hung for a while, barely masked by the faint sounds of cars far away. Then, I began to hear it. It was a wet, rasping sound – like the sound of someone choking. It grew slowly louder, and closer, moving down the street and towards my building – towards me. I sat there, feeling sweat bead on my forehead, listening to the sound of what I realised then was breathing from outside my window. It stopped moving; that is, it stopped getting louder and closer, outside my flat. It was as if whatever it was, was stood outside my block of flats – staring up at the window, and waiting. I made the decision to take a peek, to see if this was just my mind playing tricks on me or if this really was something more sinister. Slowly, I edged towards the window, not pulling the curtains but kneeling so my eyeline was level with the windowsill, and with one hand gently moving the bottom of the curtain up. I could see the low wall that covered the small terrace of the building, and the binbags by the gate and then – something pale. I pulled back, moving my hand with such speed that the curtain flew up for a moment, just enough for me to make out something in the street – something with dark eyes looking straight up at me – waiting. I moved quickly, grabbing my head and heaving it to my bedroom door, blocking myself in. I spent the rest of the night sat in a corner opposite the door, back pressed against the wall, occasionally shifting my eyes to the curtain. Whatever had seen me had grown excited, and I could hear the breathing get a little faster, and a little deeper. I sat and listened for hours, turning the knife over and over in my hand. I decided that tomorrow I would go to the local library and see if I could figure out a rational solution to all of this, to put all the pieces together in a way that would explain them and make them all go away. I thought of the dark eyes outside, and the face they were set in, the face that I couldn’t begin to admit I recognised. A face that no-one could forget. I could just picture the pale form outside, gurgling and choking, never taking its eyes from my window. The breathing continued. I slipped in and out of sleep, half-dozing. I dreamt of the seemingly endless tunnels below the cottage, of the pale shapes in the mist, and milky-eyed drunks outside my window. I was woken by something that changed everything: a voice on a tannoy, loud and filtered through static. Remnants from the blitz, our town still had emergency broadcast systems in place, tested, still, once a year. I strained to listen to the voice. I recognised the soft accent, and slight lisp from somewhere, and in my dazed state I couldn’t place it until- Until I knew exactly where it was from. It was my voice. Playing from every tannoy speaker on every street in the town was my voice. It was the recording from yesterday – This is an Emergency Broadcast. Do not panic. All citizens are to lock their doors and gather family and friends in one room. Do not let anyone out of your sight. Stay put. Help is coming. Do not under any circumstances leave your location. Do not trust voices from outside, no matter how familiar they sound. Help is coming. This is an Emergency Broadcast. Most importantly: No matter who is at the door, do not let them in. No matter who is at the door, do not let them in. Category:Fanfic Category:Creepypasta